


Names Matter Not, When We're Talking of Hearts

by HollowNightmare



Series: Geraskier Week 2020! [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Acceptance, Flowers, Gen, How Do I Tag, Identity Issues, Platonic Relationships, Pre-Slash, Realization, minor spoiler for the books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-19 14:16:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22779076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollowNightmare/pseuds/HollowNightmare
Summary: written for day 5 of Geraskier week 2020: realisation“You’re not from Rivia.” he states, loud and clear and unprompted; Geralt of Rivia stops, turns around, looks him in the eyes, and waits for him to go on.Jaskier realizes Geralt is not who he says he is. Spoilers: he's super cool about it
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier Week 2020! [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636423
Comments: 15
Kudos: 291





	Names Matter Not, When We're Talking of Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I could fill the prompt for day 4 in time and I... couldn't. Have day 5 instead!  
> I've recently finished reading the fifth book of The Witcher series, and found out Geralt has been calling himself "of Rivia" this entire time without actually being from Rivia. I thought it'd be fun to write an alternative way for Jaskier to find out, so here it is!  
> Since the books have been out for some time I don't think of it as a spoiler (it would be a minor one, in any case), but if any of you netflix fans think I should, idk, change the tags or the summary in any way please let me know.

The Witcher and the bard were traveling on a solitary road that had led them through a silent valley, several patches of trees, and some fields. They had been passing through a wood for some time now, and found themselves in a clearing. The sun was shining high, warming their skin and the rocks on their path. They were still far from their destination, and in no particular hurry to reach it: they had plenty of time to get there, and their journey had been pleasant so far, with no unexpected surprises; they had more than enough food to last at least another week, and the weather had been wonderful. 

The bard was walking slowly, basking in the sun, admiring his surroundings. He was some paces behind the Witcher, who was next to his horse, leading her gently.

But let me tell you about the flowers. You need to know about the flowers. How they were swaying gently in the breeze, surrounded by leaves of grass so vividly green you couldn’t tear your eyes from them. You need to see their colours, the depth they gave to the meadow; the bugs crawling beneath them, and the flies with iridescent eyes flying among them. You have to picture it, picture it as best as you can, because you rarely stop to think about flowers, when you’re told a story. They’re seldom pointed out to you, because they aren’t an active part of it — they’re just there, on the side of the road, behind a maiden’s ear, or between the stones of an old building. They’re part of the scenery, and that is why you need them. Stories need a setting, and most of all they need flowers.

Geralt of Rivia did not, as a rule, pay attention to flowers — unless, that is, he had a use for them. He paid attention to people, which was why he was not surprised when an old woman came out of the woods and started walking towards them as fast as her legs let her. He had heard a branch crack, and some leaves crunch, and so he was prepared.

Jaskier, the bard, hadn’t expected to meet someone on that road. Unlike Geralt of Rivia, he did pay attention to the flowers — it was part of his job to see things, watch them, observe attentively, and flowers were something that delighted him immensely. That is why he never heard a branch crack, or leaves crunch; he would have, if he’d found these things more important than flowers, but he did not, and was quite surprised when the old woman appeared, for what he had perceived, out of thin air. 

She had a kind, wrinkled face, burnt by decades of sunlight; her hair was white and straw-like; one of her fingers was missing, as well as most of her teeth. She had a limp, and wore ragged, filthy clothes.

She needed help. A monster had destroyed her home. She thought he would kill her next. She was searching for food in the woods when she had seen the Witcher’s white hair (her hearing was bad, and getting worse, but she could still see considerably well, she said), and she’d be grateful if he killed the monster for her. She had little to offer in exchange for his help, but she could repair their clothes, if they wanted, and cook for them. She’d offer them a place to stay for the night, but she still hadn’t rebuilt her house — and how could she? She was too old.

All of this, Jaskier learnt from Geralt. He was there, next to them, as the woman explained her problem, but she spoke a dialect he didn’t know very well, and with so broad an accent that he hadn’t understood a single word she’d uttered. The Witcher hadn’t missed a single syllable. Which, the bard thought, was odd, because Geralt came from Rivia, and he had traveled a lot, that much was undeniable, but that didn’t mean he knew the language of every place he’d been to. Jaskier knew more languages than he did. He decided he’d ask the Witcher about it, once the monster hunt was over.

* * *

The Witcher went into the woods alone, silver sword shining through the dimly lit trees, and came back an hour later, hair and clothes caked in blood. He was thanked profusely, and he refused any kind of payment from the old woman, whose face was covered in tears of joy and gratefulness. 

The flowers had stopped swaying in the breeze. Their petals were starting to face each other instead of the sky, which was painted in pink and gold. See how they change, how they move? You need to remember about it, when you’re listening to a story. They never tell you about the flowers, so you have to picture them yourself. See how their colour seems to change throughout the day. Watch the sky through a petal hit by the sunlight. Imagine leaves and grass spurting from the ground, defending flowers and bugs alike.

Jaskier was doing just that, when Geralt of Rivia came back from the woods. He was watching attentively, and thinking. Then the Witcher told him it was time to resume their journey, so he had to divert his eyes from the flowers — but he was thinking, still. Thinking about accents and Geralt and the old woman, and he went on until, suddenly, he understood.

“You’re not from Rivia.” he states, loud and clear and unprompted; Geralt of Rivia stops, turns around, looks him in the eyes, and waits for him to go on.

“There’s no way you could have understood that woman perfectly. Not unless you’d lived around here for some time”.

The Witcher hums, quietly.

“But you sound like you’re from Rivia”.

He hums again.

“...but you’re not”.

This time, Gerald of Rivia nods in affirmation. No use in denying it. He’s not from Rivia.

The bard beams at him. “Well, you learn something new every day!” he says, and resumes his wandering through the forest, leaving the Witcher behind.

Geralt is taken aback by the bard’s reaction to his admitting he’s been lying about himself. Jaskier notices; he stops, and he comes back. He knows his friend, and he can understand what he’s thinking about. So he smiles, and says: “Geralt, we’re friends. I know you! Where you’re from makes no difference to me. You’re still Geralt. You still smell of onions and monster parts. Speaking of which — we need to find you a bath”. And then he saunters off, searching for a pretty flower he’d spotted earlier.

The Witcher hums, and looks at his horse. She neighs.

There aren’t many flowers among the trees, and they’re all sleeping now anyway. Geralt of Rivia doesn’t look at them. He’s watching the bard.

**Author's Note:**

> I've experimented a bit with my style here, so I'd love to hear what you think about it!
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](https://pengwings-are-cool.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Have a nice day :)


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